The Minstrel to the War Is Gone
by Pentangle-linnon
Summary: Legolas and Lindir take a little trip.
1. Chapter 1

// thoughts//

Late Third Age, but before "The Lord of the Rings"

This story was written for the Teitho fanfiction contest, and I was so pleased that it did well. The theme was: "Unlikely Heroes".

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Chapter 1 **The Minstrel to the War Is Gone**

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Two elves sat late on a balcony of the Last Homely House, situated in the valley called Imladris. One was the ruler of the valley, dark-haired and stately, an elf who oddly bore a faint hint of mortality about him. The other was a ruler's son, come from a land of darkness, who took great pleasure in his visits to this haven of peace and safety.

Prince Legolas spoke with a hint of reluctance, "I will be pleased to have Lindir accompany me on my journey to Lorien."

The lord of the valley swirled the wine in his silver-chased goblet and said dryly, "Try to contain your jubilance."

A hint of red flushed the cheekbones of the younger elf. "I…of course I will be happy to…you mistake me, Elrond."

Elrond chuckled richly to see Legolas struggle to find words. He took pity on the floundering prince, and said with the diplomacy he was famous for, "You mean that you are hesitant to accept responsibility for one who is so valued for his unique and immeasurable talent."

Legolas felt a momentary desire to take the easy road, then stiffened his backbone and said, "No, Elrond, though I am well aware of his value. I hesitate because he has been chief minstrel here for an age. His world, as it should be, is within doors: composing, teaching, and performing. How long since he has ridden for more than a sunny afternoon? How long since he has held a sword or bow? I am not traveling with a war party, nor do I desire Imladris to provide one. He may be…" At this point Legolas' courage deserted him.

The elven lord was not so reticent. "A liability. You think you will have to cosset him, and protect him from harm."

"Will I not? Forgive me, but times have changed since we rode Arda freely and without care. He should wait until the darkness is defeated. He has not been to Lorien for many a year; what difference if he waits a while longer?"

Elrond rose from his chair and gracefully extended a decanter to refill Legolas' goblet. "No doubt you are correct," he said smoothly, "Do not give it another thought; we will not speak of it again. Tell me, how do you find the recurved bow your armorer introduced? Glorfindel does not favor such a style, but a Mirkwood elf's opinion cannot be ignored when it comes to archery."

Relieved, Legolas responded quickly to the subject change, yet he felt a vague discomfort—as if he were an elfling who had disappointed his favorite tutor.

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Legolas put two fingers to his lips and sounded an eerie, high-pitched call. High above, in the vaulted sky of a brilliant summer day, a gyrfalcon answered him. It soared on the rising air currents as the day heated from a cool dawn, its wingtips flexing ever so slightly to keep its flight level and smooth. The sun gleamed on blinding white feathers markedly flecked with dark brown and grey. Suddenly the wings folded back and it plummeted like an arrow, straight for Legolas. The elf did not react except to raise one gauntleted wrist, to which the bird settled with soft, purring chirps.

Legolas' companion could not keep silent. "She is magnificent! It has been a week since we left Imladris and I still cannot believe how beautiful she is!"

Legolas laughed as the bird seemed to understand and first ruffled its feathers, then laid them straight and smooth again. "She is that! We have none to rival her at home; truly she is a gift fit for the Lady of Lorien. I wonder that Elrond could part with her."

Lindir asked curiously, "You do not have gyrfalcons in Mirkwood?"

"We do, but there can be few to rival this one in all of Arda." As he spoke he transferred the majestic raptor from his wrist to the perch secured before him on his saddle. He treated the bird as if she were a queen of men, with respect and courtesy.

Lindir smiled at the way the gyrfalcon drew her sharp beak gently along the back of Legolas' glove. The smile was short-lived though, as his thoughts returned to a well-worn groove that had been briefly interrupted as he watched the falcon. He pondered again on the subtlety and deviousness of the Lord of Imladris. He was certain that Legolas had not wanted to bring him along as he took a long road home to Mirkwood, by way of going to Lorien first. He wondered if his lord had applied direct pressure, or allowed guilt to do his work for him. Probably the latter, the minstrel thought resentfully. Why not use a tried and true tactic that worked so well for him?

The minstrel shifted in his saddle, lifting one hip and setting it gently down again. He had been riding a week but his muscles still protested. He watched the almost sensuous sway of the rider before him and grimaced. Had he ever ridden so well and with such grace? If he had, those days were long forgotten in the mists of time. Shifting to ease one part of his body had awoken other aches; these were in his arms, shoulders, and back. Legolas had insisted that they have sword and knife practice each night when they camped. He swore it was to keep him in fighting trim, but Lindir knew perfectly well that the warrior from Mirkwood feared that Lindir would not be able to defend himself if they were attacked. And he was right, Lindir thought. //_Too long have you sat at harp and desk. You sing the ballads of fell deeds and bitter struggles, of darkness spreading and light quenched, yet you have lived a dreaming life, kept safe from danger by others' blood. You are a coward, my fine minstrel, for you have left danger to them, as if your voice gives you rights above them. See yourself for what you are. He despises you, and no wonder. Only his princely manners protect you from his scorn_.//

If Legolas wondered at the quiet demeanor of his traveling companion, he did not remark on it. He was a little surprised that someone whose entire life was devoted to music did not sing—not on the trail, nor in camp—but a prickle down his spine kept his thoughts ever focused on their surroundings. Though this first part of their journey should be reasonably free from peril, he could not quell the feeling that something was amiss. He had little attention to spare for an elf who, truth be told, did not interest him particularly once the talented mouth and fingers were stilled, and the music a memory.

That night, as they made camp, Legolas was brought from his introspection by a questioning purrrrr-iiip from the falcon. She was sitting on a perch forced into the ground near the fire. Legolas had planned to hood her for the night, but so taut were his nerves that he hesitated to leave her blind and helpless, even if it would make her more comfortable. He turned his head to look in the same direction as the bird, and saw Lindir caring for his horse. For the first time since they had left Imladris, Legolas observed the bard carefully. The elf was the same height as Legolas, with dark hair that almost blended into his tunic of midnight blue. His leggings were of the same color, and neither bore any decoration except for the small pin that proclaimed him a harper. Legolas suddenly realized that the elf he was staring at was far different from the genial, accomplished master of the great hall. His hands moved slowly, and his bearing was that of one who labored beneath sorrow, care, or – shame? Legolas' eyes narrowed. He did not know Lindir well, but it was obvious something was amiss with the elf. He determined to discover what it was and help if he could. Tomorrow, on the trail, he would try to discover what was troubling the minstrel.

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Lindir sat huddled high in a thickly leaved oak, his face drawn and hands shaking. How had it all gone awry so quickly? One moment they were riding along at a sober pace, sparing their horses for the mountains ahead, and the next they were ambushed by vicious men and left with disaster. Lindir's companion had fought like a demon, shouting at Lindir to escape. He had not abandoned Legolas, of course, at least not in the beginning. He had tried to fight, but a few hours of practice had not even begun to renew old skills. His sword had been struck from his hand and cackling death had surrounded him. His companion's knives had cleaved a way to him, and a hard shove had sent him spinning away from those who quickly clustered around the only threat to their heinous plans. He heard a voice cry, "Run, Lindir! You only distract me, having to watch for you! Go, and I will find you when I have dealt with these vermin!" Lindir, realizing he did endanger the prince by remaining and forcing him to try to fight and protect him at the same time, obeyed and hared off into the trees. He found a hiding place high above the ground, just as the sun began to set and waited.

All through the night Lindir waited for Legolas' return. When dawn lightened the sky he heard a piercing cry and scrambled along the branch on which he had spent the night, as far to the end as he could go. He saw the gyrfalcon some stooping toward him and, without thinking, put out his arm, calling to it frantically. The bird back-winged and reached out with its talons, gripping tightly. Lindir bit back a sharp cry as the claws bit through his tunic and into his flesh, but he held still. When the bird finished mantling and folded its wings, the claws relaxed somewhat, allowing Lindir to maneuver it onto a branch beside him. With trembling fingers he untied the scarlet jesses, then ripped a piece of white cloth from his under-tunic where a blade had slashed the sturdy fabric. He hurriedly searched for a small twig, then broke it carefully at an angle so that the pointed end resembled a quill. Repeatedly dipping the tip in the blood dripping from his arm, he wrote a short message to the Lord of Imladris. He tied the scrap to the jesses and refastened them to the bird's leg. It shifted restlessly, picking up the feelings of near-panic that flowed from the elf. Lindir bent down so that he and the bird looked eye to eye, then the minstrel touched the feathered head lightly. Lindir had not had to communicate with an animal for many a long year. Yet another weakness in him, he thought in despair. Afraid to try for a complicated message, he simply concentrated on a mental image of the valley and its lord. "Home!" he projected fiercely. "Go home!" The bird mantled again and shrieked. "Home! You must go home!" Suddenly the bird leaped from the branch and arrowed into the sky, while Lindir sat back limply. He had caught the merest flicker of understanding from the bird's thoughts, but he believed the falcon was now winging homeward. Having done all he could think of to summon help, Lindir climbed down from the tree and began to search for the area where the battle had taken place. He was terrified of what he would find, for there could be only one reason why Legolas had not come to find him. He soon realized he could not find his backtrail, for tracking was a skill he had never learned, even in his youth. He began to simply jog through the trees where the way was more open, figuring he could not have trod a narrow path at the pace he had been running the evening before.

The Valar smiled on him, at least in this, for he found the place he was looking for almost at once. It took no elven tracker to read the signs that were all around him: flattened ferns, gouts of blackened blood, sword cuts on the trunks of trees, and the prints of several horses. Again and again Lindir raked the clearing with desperate eyes, then he began to push hands and arms through the few places that brambles still stood, or ferns were undamaged. His hands were torn but he took no thought for that as he searched for the body of the Prince of Mirkwood. Finding nothing, he began to extend the search, circling wider and wider. Still nothing, and a small hope flared in his breast, a hope that he forced down, for he did not dare to believe that Legolas was alive. Then, nearly an hour later, when that hope insisted on rising higher and higher despite his best efforts, he saw it. There, through a thicket at ground level, was a hint of pale yellow—a color often seen in Oropher's line. With dragging steps Lindir forced himself toward it and slowly parted the branches before him. He sat bonelessly in a sudden, graceless heap, relief washing over him. It was his horse. Dead. A fine chestnut, with flaxen mane and tail. He had completely forgotten the color was close to that of Legolas' hair. He had felt so intrusive in Legolas' presence that he had not even jested about it, as Elrohir and Elladan would surely have done, given such an amusing circumstance.

Lindir was about to turn away and continue his search when his gaze was caught by the bundle tied to the saddle. If it had been under the horse, it would have been crushed, but it was spared that ignominious fate. Lindir hesitated and then stepped to the horse's side. He unfastened his bedroll and the bundle. Then he straightened and put back his shoulders. There was no sign of Legolas body, and he could not believe such vicious men would bother to bury the elf. That meant that they had taken Legolas with them, as they must have taken their own dead. Lindir began walking along a trail that even he could track—horses and men, taking no care to hide their passing. Lindir began to jog again, until he came to the end of the wood. Across a wide meadow was a cluster of huts, perhaps a mile away. Lindir backed up into the woods again and thought furiously. Dead or alive, he believed the men had taken Legolas in that direction, perhaps into the village itself. He looked at the few and pathetic items in his possession. His eyes lingered on the thick bundle, turned away from it, then returned. He was going to get Legolas away from those men. If dead, he would bring his body back to Imladris. If alive, he would rescue him. A short, harsh bark of laughter jerked from his throat. Rescue! He, Lindir, rescue the Prince of Mirkwood from desperate cutthroats! He began to laugh harder, and the sound rang with an hysterical edge to it. Digging his nails sharply into his palms, he regained control of himself and began to plan. For farce or not, the minstrel was going to war.

Ten minutes later, Lindir had devised a strategy. It was insane, of course—he acknowledged that. It had no chance of success and would merely give the villains two elves instead of one. Nevertheless, Lindir rose from his cross-legged crouch and began his preparations. He pulled his dagger—new and still awkward in his hand—from his belt and began cutting off large hanks of hair such that the remainder just brushed his shoulders. He did not even glance at the long tresses that fell to the ground, except to note that he must bury them before he left. Ever since the ambush he no longer looked like the stylish elf that had ridden from Imladris, yet he took a handful of dirt and rubbed it into his hair, dulling it and clumping the silken strands together. He unrolled his bedroll and set about making several things from the rough weave, using the small, clever kit that all Imladrians carried when traveling. A headband first, which he settled firmly, making sure it held his hair down and snug over his pointed ears. Next, since he could not hide the elven nature of his clothing, he made a rough surcoat to cover all. The fact that he had never sewed a stitch in his life gave an air of realism to his desire to appear as someone completely untrustworthy and down on his luck. He made several other adjustments to his appearance, including a patch over one eye—which also helped secure his hair—and deep gouges down one cheek. He rolled in more dirt to complete his disguise.

He then took up the other bundle and yanked the coverings aside. The lute twanged in protest, but his grim expression never changed. He forcefully tightened the pegs of the third and eighth courses until they broke, the high keening 'ping' echoing painfully in his heart. He took the brambles that had served so well on his face and hands, and gouged the shining wooden bands which made up the belly of the instrument. He flicked nicks from the surface with his dagger and then rubbed the lute well with dirt, darkening the fresh wounds so they would look like those to be expected from a long and hard life. When he was finished, the lovely instrument Glorfindel had gifted to him looked like something that should be thrown on a midden. With the last strips of his blanket he tied a rough sling for carrying the lute. As darkness fell, he tossed it over his shoulder. Without even pausing for a deep breath, he started out of the cover of the wood.

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Lindir pressed his back tightly to the rickety wooden wall of the alehouse. The dark of a moonless night, normally not much of a hindrance to elves, seemed thick and malevolent, carrying a miasma of all the filthiness men could produce when living like animals. They were worse than animals, Lindir thought savagely, for no animals would amuse themselves as the men within were doing, at this very moment. Lindir's stomach heaved, bile in his throat, at the thought of what was happening as well as the knowledge that it would be some time before his plan could work. He felt again a consuming self-loathing and guilt, for if he were not merely a minstrel, the elf within the alehouse would not be at the mercy of monsters as fell as any orc, though they bore the faces of the Afterborn. He heard a slight sound and slid along the wall, keeping in the darkest shadows away from any torchlight. His heart pounded, but it was merely a scrawny cat. Things were going well, better than he had any reason to expect. He had snuck into the tiny village without difficulty, and by hiding and listening had learned that the entire industry of this huddle of hastily thrown-up habitations was thievery and mayhem. Since it appeared the habitual state of the men—when not out raiding and ambushing travelers—was soused to the eyeballs, Lindir had little to fear from the few guards who staggered about shouting, "Who goes there?" to every starving cur or piece of wind-blown refuse. The women, poor shivering souls, kept within doors and no doubt had learned to hear and see nothing. The village could not have been in existence for more than a few months, or Imladris would already have heard of their nefarious activities and put a stop to them.

Taking a deep breath, and using all the performance skills he had honed in his lifetime, Lindir straightened away from the wall and walked boldly out of the noisome alley and around to the door. His gate was graceless and he had a slight limp. His shoulders were hunched and he looked both servile and malicious. He walked through the ill-fitting door and swept his gaze furtively around the room. The air was thick with smells he preferred not to identify, as well as smoke from pipes and a poorly maintained chimney. Raucous laughter came from men grouped in a semi-circle by the back wall. One man stumbled backward in order to vomit an overabundance of ale in a corner, and Lindir saw what caused the men's amusement.

The one he sought hung from ropes fastened to the wall and to his wrists. His back faced the crowd, while his face and chest were forced against the rough planks that formed the small tavern. His back bore witness to the abuse that had been inflicted upon him since he became a captive.

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End Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

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Chapter 1 **The Minstrel to the War Is Gone**

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As it turned out, not every man was intent on the hapless elf hanging from the wall. Lindir's fixed regard was abruptly interrupted by a rough hand that closed around his throat and drove his head backward against the wall. His vision wavered as his thoughts briefly scattered, and his body curved sharply around the lute on his back. Foul breath puffed into his face as a malignant voice demanded, "What have we here? Who is fool enough to bust in on our entertainment?"

Lindir's hands scrabbled at the vice around his neck, as his face began to turn blue. The grinning visage swam in his vision before the grip loosened enough for him to draw breath. "Mercy, I beg! I am only a wandering minstrel, hoping to earn a little supper and perhaps a bed in a loft! I mean no harm, I swear it!"

"A minstrel!" The hand tightened again. "This is not the sort of place that welcomes strangers, nor one to attract a bard! Such keep to the high road and the prosperous towns."

Lindir gathered his wits and in spite of his starving lungs, shifted his eyes guiltily and gasped, "A little – trouble – on the road – mistake – thought I was – thief – "

The hand slackened again and let Lindir slide to the floor. By this time, much of Legolas' audience had turned its attention to the scuffle by the door. Lindir's assailant turned to his comrades. "Lookee here! It seems we are twice blessed today! Not only have we caught an elf, but a minstrel has come to entertain us!"

A short, barrel-ribbed man snorted, "_That's_ a minstrel? Doesn't look like any I've ever seen!"

"'E says he was mistaken for a thief."

"Is that right, cur?"

Lindir slowly got to his feet, and faced the group with a sullen sneer. "That's right. Just because a little silver went missing the night I stayed at the inn…could'a been anyone, but they gave me a good drubbing and threw me on the street."

"Could'a been anyone, eh?"

Lindir smirked, "_Could'a_ been, but wasn't!"

Rough laughter burst out and Lindir was pulled forward. Greedy hands pulled at his lute but the men quieted when an actual instrument was revealed. "Maybe he is a minstrel!"

"Easy to prove! Let's have your name and a song, boy."

Lindir's voice rasped and he inwardly rejoiced. His voice would now match his appearance. It would have been impossible to pretend to be one who lives on the fringes of decent society with his normal pure, trained tonality. Now he would not have to concentrate on disguising his voice – a task easier said than done. "My name's Aoth, and I'll sing for you after you tell me what's goin' on over there." He hooked his thumb in Legolas' direction.

The smiles died and the man that had assailed him growled, "Just a little personal business that's no concern of yours. The creature killed a few of our boys and we're just meting out some justice."

Lindir leaned down to lift his lute from the floor, hiding his face as he answered. "That's an elf, isn't it? I can't help be'in curious, is all – I've never seen one."

"Maybe we'll introduce you later, but we'll have no interference, or we might decide you're a threat to us after all."

"I wouldn't dream of it. Maybe I'll give you a hand later, if you all get tired. Elfs can take a heap of punishment, so I've heard."

"Maybe. But now you're goin' to prove yourself a songsmith. _If_ you can!"

Lindir moved to the cross-grained, wide board that served as a bar, keeping his eyes from turning to Legolas, though it was the hardest thing he had ever done. He doubted, from his brief glimpse of swollen eyelids and dark bruising, that Legolas could possibly recognize him, even if the prince was conscious. Nonetheless, Lindir was determined to get a message to him. He reached the plank, set at a good height for resting elbows, and slowly turned to face Legolas' captors. He took his time, leaning negligently against the board, tuning his lute (alas for the broken courses!), and letting his gaze travel insolently over the men. His mind recoiled, even as his mouth sneered, at the vicious, near inhuman faces before him. He could look for no mercy here, nor even rational thought, and his heart quailed. His mind gibbered at him//_What are you doing?! You will be killed and all for nothing, since you have no hope of saving Legolas!// _He lowered his eyes to hide his terror, and held his hands upon the frets and sounding board, as if waiting to be inspired. Just touching the beloved instrument helped calm him, and he breathed slowly and gathered his strength and courage. Just as the men began to shift restlessly, he raised his head and struck the strings. His first song was a tale of treachery and betrayal, surely a theme that suited his audience. The soft gravely burr that the man's fingers had added to his voice seemed to fit the songs he planned to sing.

_What's that blood upon your sword, Edward?_

_It is the blood of my gray mare._

_Your gray mare's blood was never that red, Edward –_

_You're telling lies._

_Telling lies._

Lindir sang on until the final verse, where the men cheered Edward's gruesome end. A large hand clapped Lindir on the back, nearly breaking his shoulder-blade. "So he spoke truth, eh? Give him a tankard, he's got thirsty hours ahead of him!"

Lindir raised the tankard, holding his breath and forcing down the sour brew in the great swallows these ruffians would expect. He thanked the Valar for the small blessing that at least he need not fear becoming drunk. Meanwhile his thoughts sped. He had accomplished the first part of his plan: get into the building where Legolas was being held and get himself accepted by these villains. Unfortunately, since he had not truly believed he would survive to this point, the rest of his plan was rather vague. Vague as in non-existent. As he began another song, he discarded one scheme after another. He rather fancied the one where he began to swing his lute wildly, taking out one man after another, then leapt to Legolas side and cut him free, before dashing out the door with the prince on his shoulder. Glorfindel could do it easily. Elladan could do it. The least and smallest elfling in training could probably do it. But Lindir would end up on the wall next to Legolas—he knew that perfectly well. He was not only a coward; he was useless.

After the seventh song, Lindir told his audience that he needed a few minutes to rest and have a bite to eat. When a greasy platter covered in scraps was taken from a stack of the same, roughly scraped into a bucket, and then splashed with a serving of sodden boiled salt-venison, only the thought of Legolas kept his stomach in its place. He chewed as if with relish, for one who traveled the roads looking as he did would never be fussy abour what he ate. Lindir swallowed reluctantly, swearing to himself that if he ever saw Imladris again, he would never ever leave, not even to go to the Undying Lands.

Partway through his meal, he heard a soft groan, and one of the men closest to Legolas said gleefully, "'E's wakin' up again! Sing, Aoth, and give us a fitting accompaniment for our labors!" The great brute leaned down and picked up a length of dirty rope, that carried dark rusty stains upon it. He swung hard and the sound of the knotted end striking Legolas made Lindir wince, in spite of his determination to deceive these brutes.

The wince was seen, and the apparent leader of the group grabbed the arm that held the rope, stopping it in mid-swing. "Hold a moment, Lugas. It appears our songsmith objects to how we treat murderers in these parts."

There was no laughing now, as the men formed a circle around Lindir. He said nervously, "Here now, I don't care what you do with your prisoner! I was just remembering the last time _I_ felt a lash. It's a sound one remembers!"

"So you won't care if we do _this_." A long, thin iron was pulled from the fire and held close to the deeply bruised, abraded skin over Legolas' ribs.

Lindir's heart thudded fit to break from his chest. He mind was blank, his vision filled with the sight of the skin so close to the tip of the iron. It seemed to redden just from the proximity of the glowing metal. He couldn't – he couldn't – but he _must_.

"No…" Lindir's voice shook. "No…I don't care." He hated himself, hated the men, but mostly hated his useless self. He forced the words through a thick tongue. "Do it."

The iron drew along one rib, slow as a lover's caress. Legolas made a low, keening moan, but it was the sight of the smoke rising that broke Lindir. "Stop! Stop it!" He lunged forward, the lute banging discordantly as it fell in his wake. He shoved with all his might against the man holding the iron, but was himself quickly held and threatened in the span of one moment. He felt the heat of the iron close to his own face and bit his cheek, trying with all his strength not to struggle or plead for mercy. Begging would avail him nothing, and destroy his last tattered remnant of self-respect.

Two ruffians held Lindir, twisting his arms cruelly while stretching them behind him. The rest of the men had abandoned Legolas to form a jostling crowd around Lindir. There were angry mutterings and crude suggestions on how to treat anyone so foolhardy as to disapprove of the brigands' games. The eyes that were turned on Lindir, in which he had earlier seen resentment, anger, and mocking amusement, now showed a feral hunger that twisted his stomach with sick dread. He did not doubt he would prove more amusing than Legolas; he was too weak to remain as controlled as the prince. He pictured himself twisting and screaming, sobbing, begging—a spectacle that any of the Firstborn should be shamed to provide.

"Why do you care what we do here?" came the first angry question.

Lindir told himself sharply to _think_ or he would be discovered within moments. Perhaps this would be a time when a little truth would work best. "I don't care for such games. It's shameful, I know – my da tried to beat the weakness out of me, but he failed. I just don't like to see someone hurt like that."

"Do ya like to see 'em killed? Or mebbe you'd like to die yourself? We could arrange it, songsmith."

The leader intervened as Lindir began to fear his foolish attempt to help the prince would cost both their lives. "We've no quarrel with this 'un. Not like that murderer yonder." There was an outcry at this, especially from those who Lindir had struck and shoved as he tried to stop the torture of Legolas. The leader, a man with at least a modicum of intelligence, stood thinking for interminable minutes while Lindir waited to hear his fate. His hold over his men was tenuous at best, and he felt no qualms about throwing Lindir to them if it kept them passified. Then there was the fact that Lindir was a minstrel and how often would such come their way? The leader actually _liked_ music, damn it! Suddenly the man smiled a slow, twisted grin, and chuckled softly. Maybe they could get all their desires fulfilled. "We could take this bard and break all his fingers –" Lindir could not control a shudder at the hideous threat. "- but then we get nothing but screams, and I reckon a bard screams the same as any man. We could set 'im up against the wall and treat two the same as one, but again, we get nothing we don't have in plentiful supply anyway. He's no elf, so no extra fun there. I think we should let 'im sing."

Protests broke out as it seemed the minstrel would suffer no punishment, but the leader slowly raised a hand and waited for silence. "Since he seems so concerned with the welfare of our guest, I say let him decide when we play with the elf."

Lindir, whose hopes had briefly soared, now stood motionless in the hands of his guards, warily trying to understand the trap that was surely being set for him. He listened intently as the leader continued, "He sings, ya see, and we don't touch a hair on the elf's head. But if he stops, why, then we continue as we planned. If he takes a drink, stops for a leak—stops for any reason at all—we continue our discussion with the pretty thing that's our guest. When he stops altogether, we kill his new friend. Then we let him go his way. Whatcha think of that? We get double the enterainment!"

The men roared with laughter and released Lindir, pushing him back to the board that served as a bar. Hands reached and lifted the lute from the floor, gently dusting it and proffering it with mocking courtesy. Lindir took it with shaking hands. Relief had washed through him, leaving him weak and trembling. His greatest hope—if he could not rescue Legolas outright, and he knew that for a farcical ambition on his part—was that he could somehow create a diversion, or delay the men in their villainy until a war party from Imladris should arrive. He drew in a deep breath and smoothed his hands over the body of the lute, calming himself. He relaxed his throat and diaphragm, knowing he would have to sing as long as he possibly could. As he ran his extensive repertoire through his mind, he was grateful he had chosen to live in Imladris, with its constant coming and going of all races. He knew hundreds of the songs of men, and planned to sing them all. He raised his head, gazed at Legolas rather than the leering men around him, and began. He chose a ballad with thirty verses, to give him time to think.

_There was a battle in the north,_

_And nobles there were many._

_They have killed Sir Charlie Haigh_

_And laid the blame on Gordie._

Lindir sang with only part of his voice, using far less breath and control than he normally would. The small muscle contractions needed to produce true pitches and both head and chest tonality, were amazingly tiring. He let the notes flow easily, picturing a river flowing without hindrance or obstruction. He consciously relaxed the muscles in wrist and shoulder, pressing as lightly as possible on the strings which would eventually cut into his fingers, even calloused as they were.

_First appeared the fatal block,_

_And then the axe to head him._

_There's Gordie comin' down the stair_

_With bands of iron upon him._

When he had done all he could to prepare his body for hours of performance, Lindir turned his attention to Legolas. The elf had now been turned to face the room, and the bruises and cuts upon his fair face were pitiful to see. Even more troubling was the heavy crusting of blood down his neck that appeared to have flowed from a scalp wound. Even from where he stood, Lindir could see the swelling from a vicious blow with a heavy object. Perhaps done with a tree limb during the fight, Lindir mused, which would account for Legolas being overpowered by such inferior foes. The stricken elf hung limply, his chest barely moving. Lindir began to compose another song, even as he continued his ballad.

_She glanc'ed blithe in her Gordie's face,_

_Saying, 'Dear, I've bought thee, Gordie._

_But the blood would have flowed upon the green_

_Before I lost my laddie.'_

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A rider crested the steep cliff path that led onto the plain above Imladris. Another came behind him, and another, and then many more. The first rider sprinted forward as soon as his great grey horse found its footing. Two others galloped alongside, their own bay horses straining forward. The rider on the grey had hair the color of the sun, and it flew behind him like a pennant. His companions had dark hair braided down their backs, and were alike as two bookends. Thirty others straggled along behind the three, all grim-faced, all armed to the teeth. The ground shook as the riders galloped on, while above them a falcon shrieked.

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The dawn came, then the morning turned to noon and still the minstrel sang. Men came and went, going about the few activities that could not be postponed even while they had such rare entertainment. Most figured the songsmith was good for a few hours, at least, and hurried in their tasks so that they might return when things began to get interesting.

Lindir sang the occasional song in Sindarin or Quenya, mostly to give him time to think without having to search for words in Common. He never sang two in a row in those languages, however, for the lounging watchers would begin to shift restlessly and growl under their breaths. When the latest grumbling grew louder and angrier, the minstrel quickly began a song more in keeping with the taste of his audience.

_I rode seven horses all to death,_

_I rode them 'till they had no breath._

_I wore five saddles to the trees;-_

_None of those girls will marry me!_

Sometime in the middle of the song, Lindir looked up and was almost startled into playing a discord when he saw Legolas' eyes open and watching him. He saw no sign of recognition and fretted over whether he was simply unrecognized—for who would associate this scruffy scoundrel with the refined chief minstrel to Lord Elrond—or if the elf's vision had been affected by his injuries. He continued composing as he sang the songs of men, discarding words desperately, seeking just the right turn of phrase for his purpose.

_Bachelor's Hall is always the best._

_If you're sick, drunk, or sober it's always a rest._

_No women to scold you, no children to bawl._

_Always stay single, keep Bachelors' Hall._

For the first time, Lindir's voice cracked. He coughed and continued singing, but he desperately needed a drink. The men, who had been listening desultorily, returned to sharp attention like hounds seeing their prey falter. Lindir thought through his options and came to a decision—one of the hardest he had made in his life. He finished the song and placed his lute on the board behind him. "I need a drink," he said flatly. "And I want to go outside."

One of the men almost skipped to Legolas' side. "By all means, friend! Drink as much as you like! Take a nice stroll! I'll just keep your friend occupied until you return." His fingers found the knotted rope and he swung it in one smooth motion. Legolas grunted at the impact and closed his eyes. Lindir flinched harder than Legolas had, and started for the door, but was intercepted by two men.

"We'll keep you company – so you don't get lonely."

"Come on, then! Hurry!" Lindir ground his teeth in frustration as the men ambled before him into the sunshine of a late summer afternoon.

"Where to now, friend?"

"Just around the corner. Hurry!" Lindir quickly stepped into the shadow of the alehouse and tore at the laces of his leggings. The two men cackled with mirth as they realized what Lindir was about to do. The elf flushed and turned his back to them, but they only crowed louder.

"He's a dainty piece! Wants a little privacy!"

Lindir finished and snapped angrily, "I want to return! Now!" He started back for the door but the men, acting as if they were helping him, hindered him in every way possible. Lindir finally shouldered past them and re-entered the room to the sound of leather striking flesh. Two of the men had removed their swordbelts and were laying into Legolas with all their might. Lindir sprang for his lute with one hand, and someone's tankard with the other. He gulped desperately at the foaming fluid, half of it running out the sides of his mouth and down his chin. Gasping, he began to sing before he even caught his breath. He waited, every muscle screaming with tension, to see if the men would keep their word.

After two stanzas the two men dropped their arms and turned regretfully away from Legolas, leaving him with his head hanging and his breathing shallow and fast. He had done little more than grunt under the blows, but it was getting harder to be silent. His awareness was increasing as he recovered from the head wound, but he longed for the oblivion of unconsciousness as his world became only pain. Beyond the torments actively carried out upon him, his shoulders were close to dislocating from unending strain and his hands were badly swollen.

Lindir tried to catch his breath between verses, but the strain of singing without enough air was doing his throat no good. Gradually his breathing returned to normal and he slowly slid his gaze toward Legolas. At the time he had stopped singing, Legolas' sides and chest were mostly unmarked except for a bruised area along the lower ribs, and the burn on the left side. Now Lindir choked on a sob as he realized what his respite had cost Legolas. Blood dripped here and there on the torso of the elf, but most of the damage was extensive bruising and sharply defined welts. The prince must realize by now how his new torment was being doled out, and Lindir feared the accusation he would see if Legolas' gaze met his. Lindir had at last finished the rhyme that he hoped Legolas would understand. He watched the prince's face carefully, planning to sing his new song when it appeared Legolas was alert enough to hear more than mere noise buzzing in his ears.

Wearily, Lindir sang on, easing his throat as much as he dared. He sang songs of despair and broken hearts, where a soft, subdued tone could be expected. Two of his fingers had begun to bleed a little, so he tried to turn the fingertips this way or that to find new areas to press upon the frets.

_Don't mind the rain, or the rollin' sea._

_The weary night never worries me._

_But the hardest time of a sailor's day_

_Is to watch the sun as it dies away._

Once again, few of the men paid strict attention to Lindir, since it would be a while before he could be expected to falter again. They drank and diced as they listened, and Lindir dared to improve his tone just a little. The rough edge caused by the thick fingers of his assailant was still present, but he allowed a little more of his true voice to be heard. The men noticed nothing, so he continued, improving a tiny bit more.

_O Valar! If dreams were only real  
I'd have my hands on that wooden wheel.  
And with all my heart I'd turn her round,  
And tell the boys that we're homeward bound_

He watched Legolas intently, and saw the elf—who had been barely moving save for the rise and fall of his chest, and shifting to ease first one shoulder and then the other—became even more still. Very slowly Legolas raised his head and looked at Lindir. His brows drew together, and he cocked his head slightly, as though to listen more intently. Lindir's heart soared and he finished out his ballad and then strummed a fierce, dark cord. Quickly, before Legolas could decide he was simply delusional, Lindir began another song.

_I'll sing for you a story_

_Of deeds dark and fell._

_Of rack and ruin and rescue,_

_And how it all befell._

_'Twas in the time when leaves are green_

_And summer days are long;_

_When travelers were benighted_

_And one went down beneath the throng._

Legolas stiffened slightly, as he heard the tension in the singer's voice. He shook sweat from his brow and focused all his attention on the singer's words. He did not look at Lindir, knowing his interest would only rouse his captors' suspicion. What he was imagining was impossible…and yet…the hope that had nearly died sprang to life.

_It seemed the Valar turned away – _

_No hint of dawn in darkest night._

_But wings of hope are homeward bound –_

_With a message for the one with Sight._

_Aurulent rides at the fore_

_Of those sent by the Mariner's son;_

_Their horses thunder through the night_

_As Knight and Man beside him come!_

Now there was no doubt. Incredible as it seemed, it was Lindir who sang before him, looking like he belonged in this wretched village.

_These noble heroes riding hard,_

_Have all their lives been evil's bane._

_Hold close to life until they come,_

_For Aurulent will break hell's chains._

Incredibly, it seemed Lindir had sent word to Imladris, and Legolas had only to hold on and survive until help would arrive. He felt a little tension drain out of him for the first time since he had regained consciousness. He would still be tormented, but Lindir would keep that to a minimum. And Lindir himself was reasonably safe if he had fooled the villagers for this long. Legolas felt a flash of irritation as his shifted his throbbing shoulders for the thousandth time. Lindir stood across the room from where he hung in all his misery, and the minstrel was unbound, unharmed, and doing what he loved most. Compared to Legolas, he had not a care in the world.

The surge of adrenalin that Lindir had experienced when he realized Legolas had understood him began to fade, and something akin to despair set in as he faced the hours before him. The lute sang sourly as the fingers of his left hand slipped yet again. For hours he had tried to use different parts of his fingers to press the strings against the frets, but it was difficult to do. The strings had finally cut through the calluses of a lifetime, and blood began to drip onto the floor. In addition, the sinews in his hand and wrist were aching and pulling strangely. Lindir refused to think about the possibility that his hand would be ruined forever as he played on. His voice cracked again and he swore, then tightened his diaphragm to force a more intense, tightly controlled air column through abused vocal cords. The tone improved but at a price, as greater damage was inflicted. It was comparable to running all out to escape danger: it would work in the short term, but eventually the body would give in to stresses that would not be incurred at a more sober pace. Lindir sang a song of loss and grief, and allowed himself to sob.

_Then shall neither quill come nigh my hand,_

_Nor comb come in my hair._

_And shall neither coal nor candlelight_

_Shine in my bower ma´rre._

_And neither shall I marry_

_Until the day I dee,_

_For I never had a love but one_

_And he's drowned in the sea._

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Glorfindel wheeled his horse around at the sound of Elrohir's hale. He and as many of his warriors as could find horse room waited impatiently in the clearing that bore mute witness of the battle fought there. Elrohir strode directly to his commander and reported tersely, "I cannot get close enough in daylight to be sure they are there." Grass and dirt covered the front of his clothing, testifying that he had tried his best to crawl close to the noisome cluster of shacks. "Nonetheless, I think they _are_ there, dead or alive. This place did not exist six months ago and the only folk I saw walking about bear no resemblance to honest farmers and cotholders. They are keyed up about something and everyone gathers in one building. They leave it for awhile, one or two, but quickly return. They are there, Glorfindel." Elrohir waited tensely for Glorfindel's word, but the old warrior would not be hurried.

"Women? Children?"

"I saw no women, and only a couple ragged boys playing in the refuse. We do nothing but good if we take the place." _Now_ was the unspoken addition to Elrohir's report.

Glorfindel stared into space, brow furrowed. His gaze swept to the sun, frowning when he saw that at least four hours remained before sunset. "How many?"

"No more than fifty – probably not so many." Elrohir began to shift restlessly, frustrated with what appeared to him meaningless delay. Did Glorfindel not even care? He had gone with closed face and tightly reined temper since they had received word that Elrond's falcon had returned with a message written in a bloody script.

At last Glorfindel made his decision. "Mount up. Follow Elrohir and ride to the edge of the wood. Form a line back in the trees. Do not let yourselves be seen. I will look over the ground and then give my word."

The elves silently did as they were bid, and once at the edge of the wood they formed their line. They turned as one to look at their golden-armored leader. He straightened in the saddle and swept his warriors with a look that sent chills down their backs, and reminded the younger ones that this elf had seen terrors and tragedy and glory they had never dreamed of. His mighty broadsword, the only one in Imladris, hissed a song of death as he pulled it from the scabbard. A deep shudder seemed to run through the hidden line as the sword was raised high. Halfway down the lines on each side of their commander, Elrohir and Elladan raised their own lighter, curved blades. At that signal every elf brought sword or bow to hand. Glorfindel circled his sword tip twice and then flashed it left and right in a sweeping arc. Elladan grinned fiercely at the signal, showing his teeth, and the elves behind him settled deep in their saddles and forced their feet forward through their stirrups. Elrohir's startled gaze fastened on his commander, wanting to hear a verbal confirmation of the extraordinary order.

It came as Glorfindel roared, "RIDE THEM DOWN!" His horse leapt clear off the ground in its first plunge, and thirty elves came thundering behind him in a classic charge.

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End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

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Chapter 3 The Minstrel to the War Is Gone

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The flimsy alehouse was packed now, with a carnival atmosphere. Excitement was in the air as men called for ale and clustered around both the singer and the captive. Lindir was circled by men who drank with more gusto than even these hard topers were accustomed to, as they laughingly tormented the minstrel. "Here boy, have some! Have all you like!" "Singin's thirsty work, eh? Call for a tankard – call for two!" Lindir's voice cracked and broke. He started again but no sound came forth. He dropped the lute and grabbed at a pot that was held temptingly close to his face. It was drawn back, and he followed it like a hound on a scent. The holder laughed, tripped as he walked backward, and fell with the tankard sailing through the air. Lindir lunged at another, but it, too, was held from him. His lute was kicked away but he spared no thought for it—he could no longer play anyway. As he sought desperately for liquid to ease his throat and restore his voice, if only for a few moments more, the circle parted to let him see across the room. He saw a knife raised to Legolas' ear while brutal hands held his head in an iron grip. Lindir shrieked with what was left of his voice, "NO! NOOOO!" The jeering crowd let him through and he had nearly reached Legolas when a fist knotted in his hair and jerked him to a halt.

"Sing, minstrel, it's his only chance to keep his ears!"

With the rough fingers still in his hair, Lindir fell to his knees, drawing breath with all his might. He opened his mouth and no sound came forth. Legolas cried out, unable to bear such a disfigurement without protest. Lindir sobbed and croaked, "_In – in Bruton t-town, there dwelt_ – " He began to cough but the hand in his hair kept him upright. Legolas cried out again and Lindir heaved out, "_a f-farmer, who had a_ _son_ –"

In snatches and bits Lindir kept making noises that had words to them, though by no stretch of the imagination could it be called singing. Two men drew swords and placed them against Legolas ribs, waiting for the moment when Lindir would admit defeat. The minstrel was exhausted and now slumped defeatedly, gasping out phrases while yet held by the hair. He batted ineffectually at the hand holding him as he tried with every bit of strength he had to continue singing. "Done yet, songsmith?" The hand in his hair gave a rough shake.

Lindir jerked sharply and rasped, "I will die before I stop! _As I rode out one May morning-_"

His sharp movement combined with the way his hair was held caused one ear tip to peek through and the men close to him fell silent. The stillness spread through the room until even the men threatening Legolas stepped away from him to see the cause. The hand in Lindir's hair was joined by its fellow which swiftly uncovered his ears. Silence reigned for a few more moments and then pandemonium broke out. At that moment, into the cries of surprise and rage, a young man near the door shouted, "Wait! Quiet! There's something – something outside – "

One by one the men in the alehouse stopped and listened. And heard the sound of doom, for hoofbeats pounded toward them. Even before the inevitable question of 'How many?' could be voiced, it was obvious to all that an entire host was descending upon them. After the manner of their kind, they abandoned each other and each sought his own escape. But the horses were now outside the door and it was too late, even for a rush to the windows. The door slammed open, hit the wall, and twisted off its hinges to lie on the floor as a god cut off the afternoon sunlight. He appeared to take the rays into himself as he stood glowing, with a sword that seemed to keen softly with eagerness in his hand. He was as fair as the village was foul, and between armor and hair was as golden as the sun itself. He was majesty, nobility, and honor as he stood sweeping the room with piercing blue eyes. The very boards of the hut shrank from him. The men cowered, their weapons undrawn, for surely justice had come upon them from the Powers that ruled the world, and indeed, perhaps they were correct in their thought. As the menacing being took one great step into the alehouse, two more—dark to his light—appeared on his right and left. One shouted, "Legolas!" and the spell was broken. Men scrambled like rats to escape from any hole, some simply running into the walls, others diving for the tiny windows. Only a few had the hardihood to stand and fight. The three elves began swift and bloody work, and they were terrifying as they dealt death as if they danced.

The moment the shack was cleared of its villainous inhabitants, the sons of Elrond set about gently freeing their longtime friend from his chains. The murmured apologetically as agony answered the releasing of joint and muscle from long-held positions. Elladan quickly drew ale to give to the prince and Elrohir whispered encouragement as he hoisted Legolas into his arms. Glorfindel quickly determined the prince was not permanently harmed, then began searching the room in mounting fear. As Legolas was carried into the cleaner air outside, Glorfindel put out a hand to halt Elrohir. "Lindir. Was he held here as well? Where is he?" Legolas opened his eyes and looked around as if puzzled. "He was here – dressed as a man. I lost sight of him in the confusion." The prince's head drooped and Glorfindel held back more questions, but began searching the hut more thoroughly. In a corner, behind an upturned table, the warrior found a filthy bundle that groaned when he prodded it. He turned the bundle over rather roughly, thinking this was a man of the place that he could question. When he gazed into well-known—if red and swollen—grey eyes, he gasped. It took a great deal to amaze the Balrog Slayer, but the elf that lay before him did it easily. Lindir whispered hoarsely, "'Fin?" and raised a trembling hand a little off the ground. Glorfindel cried out as he saw the mangled fingers covered in blood. He took the hand into his own and cradled it gently. "Ai, Lindir, what have those animals done to you?" He tried to straighten the clawed hand but Lindir screwed up his face in pain, though no sound came from his open mouth. Glorfindel released the fingers and laid the hand carefully on Lindir's breast. "It is all right, I will not hurt you again. Come, let us get you out of here. Some of my elves will have found us a spot near clean water and shade by now. We will tend you there, where we can give you a draught for the pain." He very gently raised his old friend in his arms and carried him from the hut. For Lindir, he kept his expression serene and comforting, but in his heart was rage against the villagers, and fear that the finest musician he had known in a life-time spanning three ages, had been silenced.

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An hour later Glorfindel worked over Lindir while Elladan and Elrohir still labored over Legolas. Finally, Elrohir came and reported that they had done all they could. "He has some neglected wounds that are infected, but the worst damage is to his shoulders and hands. The swelling in his fingers has not even started to go down. Elladan is holding him against the bank of the stream, with his hands suspended in the cold water. That may help a little, but we cannot treat his shoulders that way. As abused as he is, he will sicken from the exposure. We must get him home as soon as we can. We have dosed him with enough sleeping cordial to keep him out for a week. How is Lindir?"

Glorfindel looked up from where he was sponging the minstrel's face. "He was apparently not suspended like Legolas. They must have known from the first that he was a minstrel for they have damaged his hands and throat." He indicated deep bruising around Lindir's neck and the wreck of his left hand. Elrohir knelt beside Lindir and lifted the hand that had now adopted a twisted claw-like form as its permanent position. "I can understand how they could crush or cut his finger ends but how did they twist his tendons like this? They are swollen, but not as though they were struck or crushed." He sadly lifted a few strands of the hair that now barely touched Lindir's shoulders. "Why did they…I will never understand this desire to humiliate….his was the longest in Imladris, I think. Even adar envied it."

Glorfindel spoke quietly, although the elf he tended was as unaware as Legolas, and for the same reason. "I fear greatly for his voice. I think he can survive not playing again, but if he cannot sing…he has made no sound since he whispered my name." Glorfindel's fingers now smoothed a salve to fight inflammation over the scratches and gouges on Lindir's face. "We will not start for home until the morning. Can you find some honey – there are many flowers in the meadow, there should be bees about. I would like to make a medicinal tea to pour down his throat and honey will help sooth it."

Elrohir said as he stood, "I am sure I can find some. Do you want to speak with Taurnil about those remaining in the village?"

"No, he knows what to do, and what is the good of having an adjutant if you do not leave them alone to do their work, instead of doing it yourself?" This was a gentle gibe at Elrohir, who had difficulty delegating responsibility.

"Yes, yes, you have made your point. I will go see about the honey, then."

Glorfindel smiled after him, then turned back to his patient. "Sleep on, Lindir. We will be home soon, and Elrond will know better how to help you. I pray Elbereth that he will." The ancient warrior sighed and began to clean the curled left hand of the minstrel.

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Three weeks later, Legolas was well healed but Lindir was a more stubborn case. He spent hours each day under the supervision of one of the healers of Imladris, stretching and flexing his hand. The tendons in hand and wrist had thickened and shortened as a reaction to the inflammation that developed due to the strain of playing for so long, but it was believed they could be coaxed into assuming their old shape and strength. Elrond himself had carefully pared away the rough scar tissue that formed on Lindir's fingertips, performing the procedure in several steps over the three weeks. It appeared that Lindir would play as well as ever, if the damaged tendons could be induced to become pliant again. His voice was another story. He had been kept silent for the first week, and allowed to whisper partway into the second. By the end of three weeks, Elrond encouraged Lindir to try to sing. He told the minstrel, "I do not want you to try your full voice, or to sing for more than a moment. But even a note or two will give you assurance that your voice will return, and with your mind at peace, you will heal faster."

Lindir insisted that the day was too humid to try his throat and Elrond was forced to desist. Another two weeks passed and Legolas returned to the butts to work out the last remaining stiffness in his shoulders, but Lindir would not try so much as one note. Friends encouraged him, Elrond ordered him, but he remained silent except for a soft whisper. He refused to enter the Hall, and though he had met with Legolas on many occasions, he refused to meet the prince's eyes, or hold more than a brief, "I am fine now, thank you for asking" sort of conversation. It appeared that Legolas was no more anxious to speak with the minstrel, so each avoided the other.

Glorfindel, who was the sort to believe that you should let people work out their own problems without 'everlastingly picking at them', was finally forced to seek out his friend and try his own hand at getting the minstrel to sing. He found Lindir in a garden by the river, and chided himself for the frisson of uneasiness that ran down his spine at the sight of Lindir gazing into the dark water. He sat down beside his friend and his heart was gladdened at the sight of the warm smile Lindir gave him. Not being one to mince words or choose them carefully unless he was at council, he simply stated, "I was terrified they would kill you before we could arrive."

Lindir patted the warrior's arm and whispered, "I knew you would come."

"Sing, Lindir."

The minstrel turned his head away.

Glorfindel said tensely, "We have played chess, and I have said nothing. We have walked to the waterfalls and I have said nothing. I have read with you in the library and I still said nothing. Enough! Sing, Lindir."

The minstrel simply stared at the river.

"I understand that you are frightened that you will never sing as you did before. You think that if you do not try, you will not have to face that possibility. I did not know you for such a coward."

Lindir winced and got quickly to his feet. As he turned to walk back to the house, his whisper drifted back to Glorfindel. "Then you do not know me so well as you thought."

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Glorfindel did not sigh sadly at the words, nor tenderly contemplate the troubled spirit that uttered them, nor did he run after Lindir, begging him to listen to reason. Glorfindel had had enough. Glorfindel, in spite of his easy-going nature, his complete lack of hubris, and his inclination to let time take care of many problems, was first and foremost an elf of deeds.

Legolas sat on a boulder that was part of a beautiful rock formation next to the Bruinen. The place was far from the house and he wondered why Glorfindel had insisted they meet here. Just about the time he had decided he would wait no longer, Glorfindel pushed through the surrounding thicket, towing Lindir behind him. For a moment Legolas was caught once again by the impression that although Glorfindel was only a little taller than Lindir, and was certainly not as broad as a man, he always seemed to look _bigger_ than other elves, especially when his blood was up. His 'gentle push' sent Lindir staggering into the center of the open space. Glorfindel pointed to a boulder about ten feet from the prince and said, "Sit!"

He turned to glare at Legolas before taking a seat on another boulder several feet from the other two. He now could see the faces of both elves and they could see his; his frown was a terrible thing to behold. Legolas and Lindir both waited in some trepidation for the Vanya to begin speaking, though when he did, his voice was mildness itself. "Lindir, you were my first friend when I came to Imladris. Everyone else was frightened of me, or awed to idiocy, or sycophantic, or some other such nonsense. You came up to me and said, 'I am Lindir. Do you like music?' as if you had no idea of my history. We have spent many an hour together since that day, and I am _not_ going to stand here and watch you deny your very soul in some misbegotten attempt to atone for imaginary wrongs!" Glorfindel's voice had risen as he spoke until both Legolas and Lindir were leaning away from him.

Glrofindel turned on Legolas. "And you! I have known you since you were breeched! I understand that you do not wish to speak of Lindir's business without his permission, but most of Imladris is still under the impression that his injuries were gained at the hands of those torturers, as yours were. We are going to clear this up right here and now! Legolas, why have you been avoiding Lindir as assiduously as he has been avoiding you?"

Legolas looked away from both elves and said quietly. "Due to my inattention I was struck from behind, with the result that Imladris' chief musician was forced into deadly peril, and took great harm. He is not accustomed to such deadly struggles and was distressed greatly, mind and body. It was my task to protect him, not bring him into danger. If you had not come in time, he would have been killed."

Lindir had tried to protest repeatedly during Legolas' recitation, but Glorfindel's upheld hand caused him to hold his tongue. Glorfindel asked Legolas, "That is all? This magnanimous wish that he had not come to harm? There is no anger?" Legolas lips pressed firmly shut. Glorfindel's bark made him jump. "Legolas! _Are. You. Angry_ with him?"

Legolas resisted for a few moments, then burst out, "No!...Yes…Yes! Why did he come after me? As I hung there on that wall, the only thought that brought me solace was that he was safe! When I came to my senses enough to know he was there, in that outrageous disguise, my despair knew no bounds! It were far better that I should perish than he!"

Lindir was practically squirming in his anxiety to remonstrate, but Glorfindel held him silent while he put yet another question to Legolas. "Why? Why should your loss be preferable?"

"In Mirkwood alone there are three hundred warriors, all a match to myself in arms. What matter the loss of one fighter, if a treasure may be saved? A treasure that knows no equal?"

"Very well, you have had your say. Now Lindir. Why have you avoided Legolas?"

Lindir looked down at his tightly clasped hands as he replied, his voice still raspy from his ordeal. "It was thrice my fault that Legolas was taken. Once in that I should never have forced my company upon him. Twice - if I had one tenth the skill of any elfling in training, he would not have taken that fateful blow. Thrice because I could not rescue him as any warrior would have, before either of us was harmed. Nonetheless, I could not let him remain in the hands of those brutes, not while I lived."

Glorfindel looked at the guilty pair before him in disgust. "Valar spare me! What have I done to deserve two such self-immolating fools? Lindir, I will take you point by point. Were you the most despised traveling companion in the history of the world, you could not cause that ambush. I have traveled with elves so annoying that I wanted to kill them myself, and yet we arrived at our destination unmolested. Second point: Legolas, am I to assume you have never been bested by any foe, so long as you had another warrior by your side?"

Legolas snorted ruefully, "Many times I have had a troop at my elbow, and yet still escaped by the skin of my teeth. Those men were poorly trained, unorganized, and crudely weaponed. I would have taken them, or at least scared them off, but for that unlucky blow."

Glorfindel nodded. "As you have described the situation to me, I adjudge that to be correct. And before you look all downcast for not having luck ever at your side, remember that I took an unlucky blow, and died for it. Yet Elrond sees fit to make me his Marshall."

Legolas' startled eyes jumped to Glorfindel's, and he appeared struck by the Eldar's words. Glorfindel continued, "Now Lindir, as to this rescue attempt of yours. I say in all seriousness how could you have done better? You carefully considered the resources you had at hand—the greatest being your own talented self—and devised a plan that worked brilliantly."

Legolas finally succeeded in breaking into Glorfindel's words. "Lindir, if you had not come, I should have died in great torment. Because I was unaware at first, they delayed the commencement of their 'entertainment'. It was as you arrived that they began in earnest, and from that point on the pain was bearable and did me no lasting injury—but only because you were there to stop them. The only persistent harm was taken by you, in my defense."

Lindir said dully, "I wanted to take you from them by force, and spare you the suffering they inflicted. My whole life I have been surrounded by heroes, by elves of valor and prowess. From their examples I knew what I should do, but the execution was beyond my abilities. And that is not the worst, for I was…" Lindir's head bowed, but his cropped hair could not hide his flushed face. "…I was frightened. Every minute. Every second! Not merely frightened but terrified."

Legolas glanced at Glorfindel and saw his own dismay reflected in the fair countenance. He then turned back to Lindir, his voice gentle yet decisive. "You have been surrounded by heroes, but you have not listened to them. Or perhaps the fault is ours, for not telling that which we would rather forget. You sing ballads of the Balrog Slayer, yet part of the tale is untold. Tell him, Glorfindel."

"Do you think I faced that demon without terror that turned my blood to water? Do you think I retreated to the Fountain that hideous day, without fear? The very air stank with it! My own as well as my fellow warriors'!"

Before Lindir could respond, Legolas interposed quickly, "My first foray, I rode home distraught that my father would know I had been afraid. When, a month later, I dared confess my weakness, he told me of _his_ fears in his many battles. He told me that the only shame is in allowing your fear to keep you from doing that which is right."

Glofindel walked to Lindir and stood before him. "I have always been proud to say that you are my friend. But never so much as now, knowing you walked boldly, alone and unarmed, into that vipers' nest. There are many brave elves that I consider to be heroes: Fingon and Ereinion Gil-Galad and Elrond and Ecthelion and more. To that list I add Lindir of Imladris."

Legolas stepped up beside Glorfindel, and his smile was the one that warmed the heart of any that looked upon it. "Lindir, my father once said of an elf he admired: 'He would march into Orodruin with a bucket of ice.' Such a feat could not be more valorous than the one that you performed."

Lindir looked back and forth between the two who stood before him, as red blazed across his cheekbones. The urbane master of Elrond's Great Hall asked diffidently, "You think I am brave? Truly?"

Both elves nodded solemnly. "Truly."

Lindir was overcome. He tried again and again to speak, but could find no words to express his feelings. Suddenly he leapt to his feet, threw his arms out to the side, and lifted his face to the sun. "I must…I cannot….to show….so happy…I _must_…" He gasped and gulped, then opened his mouth and sang. The sound was rusty at first, but in a few minutes had smoothed into something that at least resembled the exquisite tone and timbre for which he had long been acclaimed. It was not long before his voice quavered and broke, but before the last note faded away, he was embraced by his two companions. The setting sun's rays caused the droplets upon their cheeks to sparkle like diamonds.

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Two weeks later, Lindir sat in the Great Hall, once again in his rightful place. He had not yet performed in public, but his voice grew stronger each day and he knew he would sing for his lord again soon. Legolas sat beside him, and they laughed together in easy camaraderie. Suddenly Legolas broke off and nudged Lindir to direct his attention to Glorfindel. The warrior, dressed in formal robes and looking magnifent, was standing calmly in the center of the Hall. Lindir whispered, "What is – ?" but Legolas hushed him. "Listen!"

Glorfindel patiently waited as the great vaulted space gradually quieted. When at last he had everyone's attention he said in a clear, carrying voice, "Tonight we have been priviledged to hear poetry and song." He bowed gracefully right and left to the performers, and every maiden sighed. "However, before we begin to seek our rest, I would ask for your indulgence. I have composed a lay and would like to perform it if I may."

The room immediately buzzed with excitement, for though possessed of a lovely voice and great skill in composition, the ancient elf tended to eschew solo performances, preferring to sing with his friends or not at all. Again the room became still, though the air quivered with expectation. Glorfindel unrolled a scroll and said quietly, "The Daring Minstrel."

The muscicians struck up a stirring air and Glorfindel began to sing.

_The daring minstrel ventured forth,_

_A princely captive to deliver._

_Though elven born, engwar he seemed,_

_He carried neither sword nor quiver_

…..

…..

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Fin

A/N The song that include the lines: "Auralennt rides at the fore, of those sent by the Mariner's son" and the final last tiny bit of a verse are my own poor efforts. All the rest of the songs are traditional ballads of England and Scotland.

The title comes from one of the finest ballads ever created: _The Minstrel Boy to the War is Gone. _Most people have heard of it, but here is a taste in case you haven't:

The minstrel boy to the war is gone,

in the ranks of death you will find him.

His father's sword he has girded on,

and the wild harp slung behind him.

"Land of song!" cried the warrior bard,

"Though all the world betrays thee -

One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard.

One faithful harp shall praise thee."

Though in the song the minstrel goes to actual battle, I have always wanted to write a story where a minstrel went to war with his _voice_. The Teitho contest gave me the motivation to finally get it written. I hope you enjoyed it!

Pentangle


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